


The Snow King

by nannahthelesbian



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, Viktor is a demigod, of sorts, vicchan is a diff dog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-03-07 12:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13434834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nannahthelesbian/pseuds/nannahthelesbian
Summary: After a car crash nearly kills him, Yuuri finds himself face-to-face with the spirit of winter and death himself: the Snow King, Viktor.To get back home and out of this icy limbo, Yuuri will have to find a way to break the age-old curse on Viktor. But to do that, he'll have to melt the frost around Viktor's heart.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, huge thanks to everyone who even opened this fic, omg. 
> 
> Anyways, in case you guessed from the title, yea, this is a retelling of [The Snow Queen](http://hca.gilead.org.il/snow_que.html) by Hans Christian Anderson. It's always been one of my favorite fairy tales. :)
> 
> I'm a bit of a slow writer, so there won't be any regular updates, but I'll try my best. For now, the opening chapter is rly short just to get me going.

_”Are you still cold?” Father Frost asked, and then kissed his purpling lips._

_Ah! It was colder than ice; it penetrated to his very heart. Once more, and he forgot all about his pain, his sorrows, his everything. All became numb and turned to ice._

 

# 

 

Yuuri awoke in a dream.

Nothing felt real. Not the acrid smell of dust, not the sound of a dog barking, not even his own body. Yuuri floated, detached, in a reality without memory and where awareness slimmed down to two senses.

He opened his eyes.

Night ...

It was nighttime, with a bright moon and a hazy horizon of snow. Yuuri watched the wind play with the snowflakes, sending them into spiralling flurries that twisted around each other like teasing embraces. Dimly, he realized he should feel cold.

“Fuck,” Yuuri said. “Oh, fuck.” 

A warm, fuzzy mass of fur pressed up against his chin. His dog, he remembered. He had a dog with him when it happened. Shoma, his Shiba Inu, licked his chin with a chilly and dry tongue.

Yuuri tried to concentrate. It had been a car ride that did it. A simple drive to one of St. Petersburg’s many parks. A series of wrong turns and a skid on ice. He was here in Russia for a new jumping coach -- jumps were his biggest weakness as a skater, and if anyone would be able to do something about it, it would be one of Russia’s best coaches.

It led him here, to the wreck of the car just got approved to lease, in Goat-Fucksville, Russia. In a snowstorm in the middle of winter.  
Things felt more real now.

The dusty smell -- from the car’s airbag. He remembered it inflating, remembered the panic as the car first slid out of his control. And then things passed too quickly. People said time slowed down -- it hadn’t. If anything, it sped up. But this -- the aftermath -- this was when time became eternal and viscous.

Yuuri mumbled Shoma’s name. His dog nosed his cheek in reply. Yuuri tried to move his head to see Shoma more clearly, but something inside him didn’t connect. He hoped his dog was okay. Shoma was alive, at least. They both were. More or less.

Yuuri didn’t know how much time passed, but he noticed -- as if from somewhere far away from his body and the crash -- the sun beginning to rise over the snow-capped hills. He must have dozed off.

“Shoma?” he called, voice thin and cracking.

Shoma interrupted him, erupting in a storm of howls. He moved in front of Yuuri’s face, widening his stance. He’d never been much of a guard dog; Yuuri’s chest tightened and the feeling slithered from his gut to his throat. _What could be out there?_

And then, at once, Shoma quieted.

Yuuri called his name again. Shoma didn’t come to him.

Bracing his arms on the snow, Yuuri raised his head. From somewhere, he felt some kind of prickling sensation, but it was drowned out and muted. Shoma’s small figure cut a dark shape out of the golden sky. Yuuri couldn’t make out anything else. He let his head fall back on his arms, exhausted.  
A wet, warm, and healthy dog tongue licked Yuuri’s forehead. He froze.

“Shoma?” 

With a fond snort, a second cold and dry tongue joined the first, licking his eyelids.

Yuuri whipped his head up, making his vision whirr and blacken for a couple seconds.

A snow-kissed siberian husky touched her nose to his. Her dark ruff was tinged with gold from the rising sun, and her blue eyes seemed unearthly warm and comforting. They looked like ... like home. Like Hasetsu skies on a clear day, like the feeling of cool sea water curling around his ankles. He leaned toward the husky without thinking and breathed out a long sigh in to the dog’s fur.

The world turned snow white.

 

#

 

Yuuri didn’t think he’d wake up again.

But he opened his eyes to Shoma nosing his cheek. The husky was there, too, wagging her tail with a ferocity that shook her entire butt. Yuuri choked out a laugh. Then, wondrously, he lifted a hand to his chest. It felt lighter, much lighter. He pushed Shoma off him and discovered he could sit upright.

Yuuri’s clothes still hung off him, bloodied and tattered, but he could _move_. He bent his elbow as proof, shook out his fingers. It was as if the crash had been weeks ago.

His left side had been take care of, cleaned and bandaged. His entire left arm was in a hard cast, with the shoulder hooked in a sling around his neck. The collarbone must have been broken.

Yuuri’s brain hiccuped in a sudden moment of clarity. He’d been in a car crash, exposed to freezing weather for who-knows-how-long. He could have lost Shoma.

The dam somewhere inside him holding the pain back ruptured. Yuuri buckled forward, cupping his head, all at once dizzy and far too attached to the present. A scream ripped through his body from somewhere deep inside him and rushed out his throat.

Dimly, he could feel both dogs press against his either side, Shoma doing what he normally did during one of his anxiety attacks. They both huddled next to his chilled and trembling skin, grounding him like lightning rods.

Yuuri screamed till he had no voice left. He rocked back and forth, drawing his bottom lip across his teeth. Neither dog moved. Not until his breath evened out a little more and he calmed down enough to uncover his face.

He rubbed his eyes in the blinding light. White -- everything was white. Clean and sterile as a hospital. Was that where they were? 

But it was cold, far too cold. His butt stung from whatever table he’d been set upon, as if the surface had been sculpted out of ice. Looking down, he realized to his alarm that he’d been right.

Yuuri leapt off the table with a hoarse cry.

He spun around wildly. Everything was ice. _Everything!_ The room was small, medical, with a table and storage underneath. There was nothing else --  
not cheery motivational posters or computers or any hint of where he was or who worked here. A single, tiny doorway led to another white and empty hallway, but the draft coming through it was so icy Yuuri didn’t dare take a step nearer till he could process what was happening.

Before Yuuri had even finished taking in his tiny room, the very air changed. Like a wave receding from shore, the steam from his lips seemed sucked out of his mouth. He watched in open-mouthed horror as it vanished down the hallway. He heard a whirring, howling sound like wind through trees, and then everything rushed back to normal.

Yuuri grabbed his chest when air surged back to his lungs. His ears popped.

_“Makkachin?”_

Yuuri whirled at the unfamiliar voice. It echoed throughout the room, vibrated through the walls, but he didn’t see anyone.

The husky at his side gave a whiny bark of excitement. She bolted out of the room. Yuuri heard a distant, weak sort of laugh and backed into the farthest corner.

He didn’t know how to act. This had to be the person who saved his life, but Yuuri felt dread curl in his stomach instead of gratitude. Who sculpted a house of ice? Who kept their heat off in the middle of a Russian winter? He shivered against the icy walls.

Yuuri heard a voice speaking Russian and the skid of excited claws on the floor, and then saw the husky -- Makkachin -- leap back around the doorway. Yuuri crouched down to receive her. Shoma pawed at his arm, and Yuuri curled him into the hug.

In no way was he prepared for the person who followed Makkachin through that door.

A man made of ice.

At least, he appeared that way. Yuuri’s eyes widened from where he sat, clutching Shoma tighter. The man’s skin was nearly blue and translucent, his hair silvery white and down to his hips. Eyes like a glacial lake and just as cold.

“Uhh ...,” Yuuri said, sounding just about as intelligent as he felt.

Makkachin squirmed in his grasp, unsure of whom she should go to.

If anything could make Yuuri feel a little more at ease, it was that the man looked just as surprised as he did. He stared owlishly back at Yuuri, and Yuuri noticed the way snowflakes clung to his eyelashes, refusing to melt.

“Makka, who is this?” the man asked.

Yuuri flinched, both from being ignored and from the man’s use of Japanese. “Your dog saved me,” he said softly, petting Makkachin and avoiding the man’s eyes. “She found me in a car wreck. Someone else must have helped me here.”

“There isn’t anyone else.” The man crouched down in front of Makkachin, one pale finger on his lips.

Yuuri looked away. The man _radiated_ an icy chill that stole his breath.

_“Makka . . . “_

Makkachin backed up in Yuuri’s arms, sitting on Yuuri’s broken leg and forcing him to screw his face up in pain. She took on that guilty doggy look Shoma always wore when he stole something off Yuuri’s plate. He positioned her while fighting a laugh.

But the man was still engaged in this childish conversation with his dog, as if Yuuri wasn’t there. As if he wasn’t worth speaking to. He frowned and finally looked the man in the eye. It helped that Makkachin still demanded his attention; he wasn’t sure he’d be able to be so direct otherwise.

Yuuri,” he said. The man’s head whipped up to pin him with a startled gaze. “My name, it’s Katsuki Yuuri.”

The man glanced wordlessly from Yuuri to Makkachin, as if surprised he could talk at all.

“Yuuri,” the man repeated, testing it out. “And you’re ... alive.”

It wasn’t a question. Yuuri tucked himself farther into his corner. “I’m what? I ... hope so? Should I not be?” He paused. “Are you?”

Those icy lips twitched upward. It seemed to ease the tension in the room, and the walls around them seemed less cold and harsh. Yuuri noticed his own breath curling out before him, but the man’s breath was quiet--as if his body was as frigid as the ice and the palace itself. Yuuri shivered and tucked his chin into Shoma’s collar.

Now that he had it, Yuuri wasn’t sure he knew what to with his attention. Those eyes were unnerving, relentless. Not even blinking.

“No one’s ever been here before,” the man finally said, thoughtful. He tossed his bangs back as if it’d help him see clearer.

Yuuri wished he hadn’t locked himself into a literal corner. It was freezing, and yet he could already feel sweat making his armpits itch.

“I didn’t even know she could do that,” the man said.

Yuuri started. “Who? Do what?”

The man waved his questions aside, as if too distracted to deal with them. “Makkachin’s never taken such an interest in someone before.”

The husky barked in agreement, and Yuuri clambered away from her. 

“What, the _dog_?”

The man nodded. “Makkachin,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing. “Though she’s known sometimes to the locals as Снегурочка, the Snow Maiden.” A tiny chuckle. 

Yuuri shook his head.

Finally, it seemed he took pity on Yuuri. “I haven’t spoken to anyone in a long . . . long time. Not to anyone that wasn’t, well.” He beckoned his dog over to him and scratched behind her ears before continuing. “Makkachin’s job is to do all she can to make sure people in emergencies get help. She’s been around for centuries, and you’re the first person she’s brought back here.” 

He paused, once again turning his full attention to Yuuri, letting him take in the full impact of his words. “And I’m Viktor, just Viktor. All I do is help reluctant souls of the dead cross over to better places. You’re in the palace of the Snow King, and unless Makkachin’s hiding another trick, you’re staying here with us for a while.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri discovers more about the Snow King's palace, the role he serves there, and a little bit about what else it may be hiding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I hate summaries, sorry)
> 
> also huge thank you to @mermaidfinn and @crossroadswrite for beta-ing :))
> 
> this chapter is sooooo laaaaate, I'm so sorry! I hope things will go more smoothly from here on out. :S

_”You’re in the palace of the Snow King, and unless Makkachin’s hiding another trick, you’re staying here with us for a while.”_

 

Yuuri set his head down on his knees and sighed. He drew Shoma closer to him with his free arm, shaking from the chill, and remembered the cold manner with which Viktor, the Snow King -- whatever he really was -- had dismissed him.

 

No matter what Yuuri said, it seemed Viktor didn’t (or wouldn’t) understand that Yuuri and Shoma couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t _survive_ here. It was like Viktor was so far removed from humanity he didn’t know what it took to live.

 

It shamed Yuuri to remember his own eyes stinging with frustrated tears, his voice rising and squeaking in desperation. It was even worse compared to Viktor’s blank countenance, his one-toned voice. While Yuuri stood before him a stuttering mess, Viktor had run a hand through his long bangs -- as if this matter, the matter of Yuuri’s actual life -- was a simple annoyance and sighed. He ended their conversation with a final, “I’ll have to deal with this later,” and left.

 

Left Yuuri alone in this blindingly white, frozen space. A crash victim with no food and no warmth. Did Viktor expect him to _stay here_ until later? What _was_ later to someone or -- something? -- like him, anyway?

 

No, no. Yuuri closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing; he tried to ease the tightness crawling up his throat. He watched the steam curl out in front of him. The things he could control, the things in his immediate vicinity. The things that seemed normal.

 

And then the beginning pangs of hunger twisted his gut.

 

Shoma shifted in his arms, and Yuuri looked down at the dog’s shining black eyes. Shoma’s ears fell back. Perked and fell back. Yuuri’s shoulders dropped when he began whining.

 

“I don’t know, buddy. I don’t know what to do. I--”

 

Yuuri’s stomach answered for him, extra loud and obnoxious in the quiet space. Groaning, Yuuri wobbled to his feet. His body felt worn and battered in a way he hadn’t ever felt from skating. He tried to stretch out his neck, but something zapped near his collarbone and he bent over, wheezing. Usually there were physical therapists to help him stretch and recuperate from these sorts of accidents. He didn’t think Makkachin could help this time.

 

He curled his one arm around his belly, trying to literally press away the nausea that writhed in him. Everything was wrong. _Everything_ . He and Shoma had nothing but frozen toes and a death sentence. What was it Viktor said he and Makkachin did? Help people -- help souls cross over and whatnot? What the hell did that even _mean?_ Whatever Makkachin did to Yuuri was _not_ helping. Yuuri could think of a thousand ways this was likely to end in his death, and absolutely zero ways this could possibly help him.

 

_God_ , though, he was hungry. There had to be someone else in this place who knew he was here, right? This was a medical room; his wounds were cleaned and dressed. A _dog_ couldn’t do those things, so there had to be others. Right? They wouldn’t let him freeze … or starve.

 

Right?

 

Yuuri tightened his grip around his middle. Viktor said this place was a castle. He seemed like an old-fashioned sort -- or at least high maintenance. There must be some sort of wiring system strung out through this … palace of … ice.

 

Yuuri laughed, hysteria taking the sound up a couple octaves. If he died, he’d be here visiting Viktor anyway, wouldn’t he? He shook his head, shoving all this miles away before he and whatever was left of his sanity completely lost it.

 

Shoma pawed at his shin, taking him back to the present and out of his head with each press of his little claws. Yuuri looked down, his arm in its right-angle cast making him bend like a toy doll at his waist. His puppy hopped and whined with more enthusiasm.

 

Tears stung at the back of Yuuri’s eyes. His hands began to shake. Softly at first, and then harder -- impossible to ignore.

 

“Fuck, no. No, no, no.” He couldn’t lose himself to panic. Not now. Not when his and Shoma’s lives depended on him. And _oh fuck_ , that just made it worse.

 

Shoma kept jumping up at his knees. Maybe trying to comfort him; maybe he was doing it out of hunger. Knowing Shoma would there would normally help calm Yuuri down, but all it did now was heighten his need to scream and completely break down.

 

Words fell from his mouth. He couldn’t keep track of them, couldn’t remember what any of them meant. The only thought he caught was, _’two attacks in one day -- useless_. Yuuri fell to his knees, hand to his throat. He could just see the end of Shoma’s red tail round the corner of the doorway before he curled up and lay his head on his knees.

 

Part of him couldn’t believe it. His dog always stuck by his side during attacks. _Always_.

 

The feeling in his throat changed. Yuuri no longer felt like he gasped through an opening the size of a straw, but his throat became raw and sore in that familiar, infuriating way that led to him being covered in snot and tears. Though he hated it, it eased the tension in his body. He let it come. Run its course. Eventually, the bone-tiredness that always washed over him after an anxiety attack flooded his limbs and he lay back against the medical table, sore and exhausted.

 

And now, truly alone.

 

He was already so tired of this new existence, tired of feeling frozen. Head pillowed on his arm, he drifted off in a haze of semi-consciousness, broken only when he felt his cheek being covered with stinky doggy slobber.

 

Blinking, in a daze, he saw … for a second, he saw the Snow King’s dog herself, Makkachin, tongue lolling and tail wagging. In the next blink, she was gone. Little Shoma took her place, back from whatever adventure he’d been on. Of course he’d come back. Yuuri tried to shake off whatever negative, nagging thoughts berated him for seeing Makkachin first.

 

Shoma ran back out into the hall, letting out an excited bark that echoed. He spun around in a single hop to face Yuuri. Shoma yipped and wagged his tail like he wasn’t nearly starved and hadn’t nearly frozen to death in a car wreck a day … a day? hours ago? Yuuri had no way of knowing how much time had passed since this whole nightmare began.

 

Shoma raced from the open hall to Yuuri, then back again until Yuuri finally approached the doorway of their little room. It intimidated him in a way he couldn’t define. The medical room -- he knew that place now and everything in it. Yuuri cautiously glanced outside, to the stark white halls branching in either direction. The stream of cold wind drafts, the white sameness of it all; it was ridiculous, really, but it terrified him.

 

Shoma danced by Yuuri’s feet, looking up at him and whining. Yuuri wished he had a leash or a rope -- _something_ \-- to make sure they wouldn’t lose each other.

 

Deathly cold air greeted them both upon their first steps outside. Yuuri swore it was the kind that froze nose hairs on an inhale or solidify spilled water before it hit the ground. Wind swept the air from his forehead and caused his ears to pop.

 

Seconds after the little storm began, it stopped. The wind died, and the air warmed in a gentle current around Yuuri, lifting the hair from his ears and fluffing the ruff around Shoma’s neck. As if the hall was … _inspecting_ them. Or identifying them? Yuuri didn’t know which was worse, and he was struck with a sudden panic and the want to run back inside and curl up against a corner.

 

Shoma paid the weather no mind. He explored the polished icy hallway with his normal cheer, sniffing the corners with tiny, excited snorts. When he raised his leg, Yuuri tried to stifle an amused snort. And then common sense finally found him again; Yuuri rushed to Shoma, tripping over his own feet, and attempted to -- what? There was nowhere to take him.

 

“Ahh …” Yuuri whipped his head both directions and met pristine halls of solid ice. One plowing on straight ahead, farther than Yuuri could make out, and the other gently curving somewhere he couldn’t see. Both without doors or gaping entryways or windows or … anything at all. Well, at least now there was a splash of color to decorate these colorless walls.

 

Yuuri bent down to pick Shoma up, then thought better of it when his shoulder smarted from the reach. Shoma turned around and kicked imaginary leaves and dirt over his duty, some ridiculous habit he’d picked up from a cat or a neighbor dog or something. Yuuri fought another hysteria-tinged chuckle from bursting out of him.

 

Yuuri swallowed the panic down, closing his eyes against it. When he opened his eyes again, Shoma had sat down by his feet. Yuuri glanced down each hallway again.

 

“Hello?” he called. His voice came back to him, muted and yet sharpened, more like a hiss than something he recognized. “Is anyone there? Can you help us?”

 

As if he’d somehow gotten an answer, Shoma slipped between Yuuri’s legs and bolted down one of the halls. Yuuri twisted around to follow him, his throat seizing up and his legs too slow and clumsy in their makeshift casts to keep up.   

 

“Shoma!” Yuuri all but screamed. He detangled his legs and chased after his dog, one arm frozen in a ninety-degree wave by his side and one foot stiff and awkward underneath him. “Shoma, please!”

 

Passing through Viktor’s palace was like traveling through an ever-lengthening fisheye lens. The walls stretched on and on, and nothing ever changed in their whiteness. No distinguishing blemish between one yard and the next. And it was so damn _cold_.

 

“Shoma, wait,” Yuuri said, gasping. His lips felt large and clumsy. He bent over and pressed against the dizziness behind his eyes. His sprained leg shot pain up through his hip, and every breath he took seemed to well against his collarbone and ribs.

 

The dizziness only subsided when Yuuri heard the little padding of Shoma’s feet grow nearer. He took the hand away from his face and reached out to his dog.

 

Shoma trotted the last paces and jumped up on his legs -- something Yuuri always meant to train out of him but never had time to. Yuuri cried out, falling against the icy walls. His feet slid out from under him, and he landed hard, shocking his spine.

 

Yuuri sat there with Shoma curled in his lap until he could breathe without cursing. He leaned his head back -- and the wall pulsed and warbled under him. Almost beyond his patience, Yuuri leaned forward. The ice was as still and white as it had ever been. He glanced at Shoma to share some annoyed glance before forcing his body to turn and face the wall.

 

Yuuri rubbed his numb hands together and blew on them once before placing them palm-down on the ice. A full-body ripple coursed down his body, turning his bones to jello and his veins to rivers of cold mercury. The wall itself stayed firm, but he _felt_ it shift like a flower blossoming underneath his fingertips. He felt it shift _him_.

  
“Nope,” Yuuri muttered shakily, setting his hands back into his lap. “I can’t do this. I _cannot_ do this.”

 

Shoma nosed his way under Yuuri’s arm, begging to be pet. Yuuri indulged him with a sigh, warming his fingers in Shoma’s short but thick fur. It was still cold, so cold though, and the wall he stared at simply stood as it always had. White and unmoving, silent and chalky-white.

 

Yuuri leaned in closer, trying to gaze past the hall’s wall. If it was really all ice, he could see through it all to the other side … in theory, right?

 

In theory. Viktor’s palace did what it wanted to do.

 

With a huff, Yuuri sat back and blinked hard to refocus his vision. “Think you can walk some more?” Yuuri asked his puppy, as if it were Shoma who would slow them down, and not himself.

 

When Yuuri wearily rose to his feet and looked down the hall, he swore it wasn’t the same as the last time saw it. Instead of an unending white passage, he both met a hallway that branched into two directions, one of them blushing with a peach-gold light. It was -- dare he think it -- the most inviting sight he could think of. But based on what he remembered this hallway being before?

 

_This place was a madhouse._

 

And he was no saner. He’d willingly follow whatever bait the palace set out for him as long as it would end this unending, torturous sameness. Shoma skipped on ahead, making Yuuri’s heart lurch. Yuuri caught up with him at the turn. They rounded the corner together and met the warmth of the sun -- the real sun -- and it stopped Yuuri in his tracks. He basked in it for a while, eyes falling closed, shoulders losing the tension they’d gathered since waking up in that little medical room.

 

And then the _scream_.

 

Shoma erupted in snarls and barks. He moved too fast and ended up in a comic mess of slips and wipeouts trying to get back to the entryway to a white and snow-covered balcony where Yuuri was.

 

Yuuri stayed there, neck craning to catch a glimpse of anyone. His hands, held in tight fists, began pumping in time to his pulse, growing faster and faster, till --

 

Another throaty squeal, and two inky ravens the size of large dogs descended upon them, the beats of their wings nearly knocking Yuuri off his feet. They perched on the faraway ledge before barking -- _barking?_ \-- at Shoma. Yuuri swooped down and shoved Shoma behind him.

 

“It’s a dog!” one of them said -- one of the ravens _said_ \-- in a voice that sounded more like a squeaky door hinge than someone speaking.

 

“And a boy! A real, live boy!”

 

They cackled to one another, their great and velvety throats bobbing. Yuuri glanced desperately at the way they came, but one of the ravens hopped onto the floor and skipped closer to them. It cocked its head, black eyes shiny and huge as it pushed Yuuri farther onto the balcony and farther from safety.

 

“A real boy,” it repeated in wonder. Its beak and tongue labored in its mouth to form recognizable words, almost looking painful. “How did you get here? Did Viktor finally snap?”

 

The second raven hissed. “Mila, you’re being rude!”

 

“Am I? It’s not as if I know how to behave in proper, _live_ company.” The birds giggled over that one, too, but it left Yuuri feeling like prey.

 

“Aren’t … isn’t the Snow King alive?” Yuuri asked.

 

Their laughter died. They looked at each other in that angular, jerky bird-like manner before facing Yuuri again.

 

The raven still perching on the rail fluffed her wings. “Why _are_ you here?”

 

Yuuri squeezed Shoma tighter to him. He shrugged and hoped it would suffice as some kind of an answer. He glanced back at the entrance of the palace and hoped it wouldn’t be noticable.

 

“How did you get here?”

 

Yuuri’s head whipped back to the birds. “I don’t know,” he said. He wished he could vanish into the ice of the castle as the raven -- Mila -- hopped closer and closer to him. “There was something about Makkachin. It was an accident, and we … we just showed up here.”

 

Mila made a little trill-like noise deep in her throat. “How strange!”

 

“You’re scaring him, Mila.”

 

Mila scoffed. A bird, scoffing. She hopped and danced backwards on her inky, sharp talons to sit by the other raven.

 

“Being polite is exhausting,” Mila said.

 

Yuuri slowly uncurled now that they weren’t in his space. “Who are you? And where are we?” His chest tightened, and he couldn’t hold back a dry, voiceless sob. “I . . . I think I need help.”

 

He flinched when they didn’t answer. The wind filled in the silence, howling past them, blowing snow into Yuuri’s eyes and snow into Shoma’s pointy ears. Shoma shook his head and scratched. The ravens’ feathers shimmered, Mila’s revealing an auburn tint and both of them glittering with unmelting snowflakes. Cold air rushed through Yuuri’s nose in a close-mouthed gasp.

 

Their bodies didn’t respond to the cold. Just like Viktor.

 

Was everyone here basically made of ice?  


“I’m Sara,” one of the birds said, making Yuuri flinch. “She’s Mila. And technically? This is Russia, if it makes you feel better. We’ve been here for years. Centuries, actually. It might help if we just tell you outright.”

 

Yuuri blinked. He felt submerged, dizzy. “What?”

 

“Viktor was already here by the time we got here. We think he’d been here for a while already. Makkachin too. At that time we were more … more like you, I suppose, and Viktor was a lot … well, a lot less like he is now.”

 

“I don’t think I understand.” Yuuri still felt slow to function. “I don’t think I …” He didn’t know if he _wanted_ to understand.

 

Mila stretched her neck out toward him, resembling more of a black vulture than a raven. “There’s nothing here but ice. And no one here but us.”

 

“Stop, stop talking.” Yuuri rested his chin in on his knees. He was so damn cold. “Please …”

 

“Ah!” one of the birds cried. Sara alit next to him, feathers brushing over his head. “Mila, his ears are nipped.” She looked down at him, her eyes flashing violet for a moment, and murmured, “I’m going to hug you, so don’t be afraid.”

 

It was all the warning Yuuri got before she folded her wings around him, and everything became black. He cried out, one arm batting at the feathers. Distantly he heard the two birds shouting to each other. Yuuri tried to yell out both the ravens names but stopped when he discovered he felt … warmth. He breathed in, long and deep, feeling Shoma stop wiggling in his lap and slowly settle in, nose buried between his paws. Yuuri’s skin burned with the sudden temperature change.

 

Sara’s voice came through his little warm cocoon like it had been diffused through a lazy breeze. “You doing all right in there?”

 

“I don’t … understand how this works. I don’t understand how any of this works.” Yuuri fought his increasing drowsiness to make his words comprehensible.

 

Sara made a soft crooning sound, nothing more. Yuuri shivered, wincing now that blood was starting fill in and warm the numbness in his ears, his fingers, his toes. The tingling turned to prickles of pain, then pinpricks of fire.

 

“Oh, god,” Yuuri said. His exclamations turned to curses, and he tried to escape his feathered shelter.

 

He felt the sharp point of a beak nip the top of his head. “Unless you want to lose your ears and toes, you’ll have to weather out the pain.”

 

Yuuri reluctantly sat back down into the inferno, gently rubbing his arms and ears and massaging Shoma’s toe beans. His pup’s toes were badly chapped and raw, and Shoma let out tiny protests whenever Yuuri pressed them too hard.

 

His heart pounded painfully in his chest. Whatever reason Makkachin stole Yuuri away here for, she could have at least spared Shoma.

 

Once the pain in his extremities eased (and a worrying purple color took its place), Sara warned him to close his eyes and then unfolded her wings. Even from behind closed eyes Yuuri groaned from the brightness. The cold bit his nose and ears with a ferocity that made him wish the numbness was back.

 

“I don’t think I can take this,” he confessed before finally opening his eyes.

 

Mila perched above him on the rail, cocking her head at his statement. Yuuri was sure he saw mockery in her black eyes. And then he realized he was trying to read a bird’s emotions and shook his head.

 

“What?” Yuuri asked, a bit more petulant than the meant.

 

In response, Mila simply curled her wings close to her body and unfurled them again. Yuuri’s jaw slackened in shock. Blankets, jackets, and bags stuffed to bursting tumbled out from her very feathers. Sara whistled, and Shoma surged forward to nibble at something, but Yuuri just sat there and blinked.

 

And then, surprising even himself, he asked, “Why can’t you just bring us back to where you got this stuff?”

 

Sara shared a glance with Mila before answering. “It doesn’t work that way.”

 

Yuuri’s lips thinned to a hard line. “Why?” He could feel his face heat up. He was grateful for their kindness, for their gifts, but he wanted to be home.

 

“Mila and I can leave. Viktor can leave. Makkachin, too. But you and your dog can’t.” Sara watched Yuuri slowly back away from her and hastily added, “No one’s keeping you here! It’s just the nature of this place.”

 

Mila pushed her way past Sara and pulled her back to give Yuuri a little more room. “This isn’t somewhere you could point to on a map.”

 

Sara nodded. “It’s more like … if you’ve ever seen the Aurora Borealis and could imagine those lights were a physical place, that’s where we’d be.”

 

Yuuri frowned. “But that--”

 

“--Doesn’t make sense. We know.”

 

The heat in Yuuri’s cheeks built till it focused into the space behind his eyes. He angrily swiped at a tear that gathered there, frustrated with himself. Frustrated with this place. This situation. Even these stupid birds that wanted to help.

 

“Here,” Sara said, brighter. “See what Mila got you!”

 

Yuuri nodded and obeyed them in a daze, without allowing himself to protest anymore. He couldn’t find any enthusiasm, even upon finding hand warmers and a great puffy winter coat with a matching hat and mittens. Even a dog jacket and booties for Shoma. He knew he was being rude and ungrateful, but he couldn’t step outside his heavy mood. Putting on the winter clothing helped, though. So did eating a couple granola bars. He found he could say thank you without his voice trembling.

 

Mila’s stash contained bottles of water, plastic silverware, and other food that wouldn’t need to be heated. Yuuri could already feel his stomach protest and weep at the thought of not eating anything warm for … well, for who-knew-how long. There was soap and socks and boxers (he cringed thinking about how Mila must have have predicted his size), winter boots, and camping supplies. There were even bags of kibble and toys for Shoma. His hands shook as he passed one of the crinkly, fabric-covered bottles to his dog, who shook it back and forth and growled playfully.

 

At the very bottom of the pile, beneath a plush dog bed, Yuuri found a small notebook and a box of pens. He looked up and searched Mila’s eyes.

 

Mila ruffled the feathers on her neck, and Yuuri _swore_ she looked almost … embarrassed? “It’s a journal if you want it,” she said. “Or something you can just take notes on. Well, it’s whatever you need. To be honest, keeping a log is what kept me sane when I first came here.”

 

Yuuri’s eyes widened. Keeping a log …? How would Mila keep a log? How long did -- how long did the birds expect he and Shoma would be here?

 

Sara shoved Mila and made a low screech. “You’re gonna scare him again!”

 

They already did. Yuuri wanted to ask Mila more about the journal but didn’t know if he could. He tried to imagine a raven holding a little pen. Then again, Mila and Sara didn’t follow any conventional rules; maybe they just thought what they wanted, and it came through their consciousness in neat, inked words.

 

“Thank you,” Yuuri said again, meaning it more this time. The pressure behind his eyes built back up in a rush, and he had to press against them to keep tears from spilling over.

 

Mila laughed. “We should be thanking you. We haven’t had any company for … a really long time.”

 

“Oh. Ah, right.”

 

Yuuri hunched his shoulders in his new coat, finally taking his hand away from his face. He couldn’t imagine only having one other person to talk to in -- what did they say? -- centuries. Viktor didn’t seem to speak to Mila or Sara; did he really only have Makkachin for company?

 

“So tell us if we’re smothering you,” Mila said. She hadn’t stopped talking, but Yuuri only caught the end of her speech.

 

“But make sure you come back here to sleep. Don’t ever fall asleep unless we’re with you.”

 

Yuuri turned to Sara, mouth parting but finding he didn’t know what to say. Suspicion and anxiety rose up in his throat like a wave. He thought she’d backtrack, apologize or do _something_ , but she remained firm.

 

“Don’t do something stupid like freeze to death,” is what she _did_ say. “We’ll shelter you and keep you warm here.”

 

Here, they said. Were they stuck outside? Banished?

 

Catching Shoma, who practically belly-flopped into his lap, Yuuri bit his lip. “Why?” When they hesitated, he prompted, “Does it have something to do with Makkachin?”

 

Sara ruffled her feathers. “Makkachin’s sole purpose is to help people. If she brought you here, then--”

 

Yuuri scoffed. ” _Help people?_ There’s no way …” He let his own words drift away angrily when a singularly absurd thought reared up behind his tongue.

 

Unwilling to give it voice, he glanced at the two ravens, snatched up the journal Mila brought him, and wobbled to his feet. He couldn’t stay there with them. He needed space.

 

Beckoning to Shoma, Yuuri walked back inside, muttering a quiet, “Going for a walk,” as an explanation.

 

That ridiculous thought followed him in. It clouded over his mind till it was the only thing he became aware of, the only thing he could think about, as if the castle and its very atoms were made of it.

 

_If Makkachin didn’t bring Yuuri here for his own sake, she brought him here for the sake of only other person in this icy wasteland._

 

#

 

Yuuri grumbled and drew another line marking one kilometer in Mila’s -- _his_ \-- journal. Mila had slipped in a thin (precious beyond imagining) pedometer between the top cover and first page, as if she knew what he’d want the paper for. He’d seen first-hand how the halls in the ice palace shifted, but that was after he’d practically begged the place for help. Nothing here made sense; it’d be much easier on his nerves if he just accepted it without overthinking.

 

Ha, overthinking. Speaking of, that damn thought: Yuuri was here for the Snow King’s sake. It wouldn’t leave him alone.

 

What did Viktor need help _with?_ A demigod of snow and death, lord of a palace in the Northern Lights -- and what … Yuuri was supposed to help him with something?

 

And what would happen once he was done with whatever he was here for? He’d magically just go back home the same way he came? Or maybe he’d just be brought back to the wreck of his car and freeze to death. It had to be at least a day or so since he’d crashed. Was someone looking for him, or had no one noticed his disappearance at all?

 

What, what, what ...Yuuri stopped to take in a deep breath through his nose and push it out through his mouth. Then again, and once more. He tried to focus more on the mechanics of his body. The flow of the air.

 

Yuuri looked back down at his journal, back to what he had set out to do. So the palace could listen to him and answer back. Okay, fine. Back home in Hasetsu, it was pretty much the same anyway. His stomach would growl, and there would be a knock at his door and a dinner announcement. He could handle this.

 

The “magic walls” were probably why Mila and Sara let him go without complaint. Yuuri also made a mental note to stay clear of the walls while he mapped everything out.

 

He and Shoma had been walking down this one single straight hall for about three and a half kilometers. One hallway, no turns or branches. One hallway with no changes in lighting and no mark in its ice to differentiate one meter from another.

 

It was the most lonely and claustrophobic Yuuri had felt in a long time, even with Shoma by his side. He couldn’t imagine spending an eternity in these walls.

 

On the fifth kilometer, Yuuri looked up and gasped. He glanced down at Shoma, cheeks already aching with a grin he hadn’t used in what felt like years. Up ahead, the icy and austere hall ended in a split. He was already sore and out of breath, but he surged forward into a limping run just to reach some sort of change in this neverending sameness.

 

Shoma barked in excitement, and Yuuri laughed as they both skid on the turn--

 

\--Only to slip and crash into Viktor himself. The Snow King yelped and backed away from them. Yuuri nearly fell on his face, catching himself with his one good arm at the last moment and cringing as pain lashed across his shoulder and back. He spun around on his rear, eyes wide.

 

Viktor did nothing but blink at him.

 

When it became clear he wouldn’t say anything, Yuuri cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry … your majesty?” The words felt slow and awkward in his mouth. He should’ve asked Mila and Sara how to address him.

 

Viktor seemed frozen.

 

Yuuri finally rose to his feet, wincing. He tried and failed to make a polite bow. “Yuuri Katsuki, remember? Makkachin brought me here, ah, yesterday, I think?”

 

“You’re still here.”

 

Yuuri frowned. It was that same sort of speaking but-not-speaking-to-him kind of thing that Viktor had done before. Viktor spoke as if Yuuri weren’t there at all. Indignation made his cheeks heat up before he remembered Viktor probably hadn’t talked with another human being in literal ages. He shut his mouth and silenced the retort brewing inside.

 

“Yes,” Yuuri said carefully, “still here.”

 

Something crossed Viktor’s face. He leaned back, as if taking in Yuuri for the first time. “What did you call me?”

 

_What did he … when?_ Yuuri struggled to catch up -- or rewind -- to find whatever page Viktor was on. “Oh, uh, your majesty? Am I not supposed to … say that?”

 

Two small wrinkles formed between Viktor’s brows -- the most emotion Yuuri had ever seen him display. He found himself unable to look away from them even as Viktor said, “It’s Viktor. Only Viktor.”

 

Yuuri nodded. The tiny hint of emotion vanished, and Viktor’s face became a solid, polished mask of ice once more. Painful to look at and impossible to read.

 

Yuuri felt his heartbeat speed up; neither of them said anything more, but Viktor didn’t look like he was about to leave. Yuuri had never before felt so small or awkward. He wasn’t the best in a conversation -- to be fair, he could barely hold up his own, but this was slow torture.

 

“So where were you headed?” Yuuri asked, gulping down his nerves. “Mila and Sara said you don’t visit them often.”

 

Viktor drew back as if he were offended, but that mask stayed firmly in place. Yuuri found himself trying to think of ways to budge it.

 

“I felt something up here,” Viktor said. “I guess that was you.”

 

Yuuri flinched. He recovered enough only to nod. He supposed it made sense, though. Viktor was the Snow King. He was everything in this icy waste; the very palace might as well be an extension of his arms. Yuuri _definitely_ needed to avoid touching the walls. And to keep Shoma from --

 

_Oh god!_ “I’m sorry! My dog, he -- I didn’t know.” He wanted to promise it wouldn’t happen again, but how could he say that? Where else could Shoma go? What if they were in the middle of one of those damn thousand-kilometer hallways--

 

“I love dogs,” was all Viktor said, his voice ever monotonous, and Yuuri realized he was kneeling before Shoma, making small _tsk_ -ing noises as if he were … well, any normal person.

 

Even if glancing Viktor’s way made it painfully obvious how far he was from humanity. Every centimeter of his face seemed sculpted to perfection: crafted to intimidate and bewitch. Yuuri averted his eyes, biting his lip.

 

“How old is he?”

 

Yuuri’s head whipped Viktor’s way too fast for his neck. He winced and swallowed the pain down. He knelt next to Viktor, taking off a glove to scratch Shoma behind his ears.

 

“Just a year old,” Yuuri answered. “He acts younger, though. Spoiled rotten and usually gets what he wants.”

 

Yuuri noticed Shoma trying to nose his way into Viktor’s hand. Every time, Viktor drew back, out of reach. Yuuri tried to catch Viktor’s gaze.

 

“You can pet him if you want.”

 

It was the wrong thing to say. Viktor took his arm back as if it were scalded. He stood up with a stiffness that had melted when Yuuri talked about Shoma.

 

“Oh,” Yuuri said, floundering. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …”

 

Viktor turned away, and Yuuri sucked an audible breath through his teeth. He reached out, almost involuntarily. He didn’t want to go back to the ravens; he didn’t want to become enfolded by the castle’s labyrinthine halls. He didn’t know what he wanted.

 

“Wait,” Yuuri said. “I’m sorry.”

 

Viktor stopped. He didn’t move for what felt like an eternity. Yuuri’s outstretched hand curled into a fist, and he drew it first back to his chest, then to Shoma’s warm coat.

 

Yuuri tried again. “You could -- could you show me around?”

 

Viktor turned, and those tiny wrinkles were back. Yuuri felt his chest rise -- until he remembered that expression didn’t mean well. His hand tightened on Shoma’s back.

 

“There’s nothing to see,” Viktor said, weakly gesturing around him. Not waiting for Yuuri to blurt out some other stupidity, he strode down the other hall and out of view.

 

Yuuri stood back up, staring where Viktor had vanished. The air grew warmer in Viktor’s wake, and Yuuri’s muscles loosened as they stopped shivering. Taking in an icy breath, he glanced at Shoma and deflated.

 

“Okay, he likes dogs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my yoi blog](http://leoscoachsbuch.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri, Shoma, and Makkachin do some meddling, and Yuuri find he and Viktor have more in common that he thought ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! sorry I'm one of the slowest writers ever. :S but I'm here with chapter three!! hope you all enjoy it; it was really fun to write. :) someday I'll finally draw art for this thing, and I'll link them here when I do!
> 
> this chapter beta'd by the wonderful [mermaidfinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermaidfinn/pseuds/mermaidfinn) and [Lesbianmari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LesbianMari). :) both their fics are really, Really good, so please check them out when you have the time!
> 
> Ok, here we go:

Yuuri sat on his boots’ thick rubber heels and surveyed the map he and Shoma had drawn out so far. A humorless laugh burst from his mouth. He thought he had made so much progress, but looking at things from a wider perspective showed just how little he actually discovered. Or maybe it revealed just how large Viktor’s world really was.

One long broad line stretched down the cream page, and only a few chicken feet branched from it. The raven’s balcony was a dark black charcoal smudge in the middle, but he found no other rooms. Yuuri grimaced. At least he had no shortage of time to snoop out this place’s secrets.

Time … how long had it been since the crash? Twenty-four hours must have passed by now. His car  _ had _ to have been found. When he and Shoma weren’t with it, what would have happened? Did someone contact his family? Was there a search? They’d never find him.

His family ...Yuuri rubbed his eyes -- and then couldn’t stop rubbing them. He hadn’t realized how tired he was until he stopped moving. Thinking of his mom and how she might receive the news of his disappearance only made him more exhausted. More than ever, all he wanted was an extra large serving of her katsudon, his father’s smile, and his sister’s wry teasing.

Shoma plopped his head on one of Yuuri’s knees, fixing Yuuri with that soft, doggy stare he knew was hard to refuse. 

Yuuri scratched behind Shoma’s ears. “Ready to head back, little guy?”

Shoma nosed his way farther into Yuuri’s lap, guiding Yuuri’s fingers farther over his neck. Laughing, Yuuri gave his puppy a couple more pats, then stood up. The white hall spun for a second, and nausea created a cyclone inside his stomach.

Yeah, maybe he overdid it a bit today. But it was better than going mad on that tiny balcony, trapped and doomed to overthink everything, worry his sanity away, and think about all he missed about home and the second home he had in Detroit.

Did Viktor have someplace to miss? Yuuri quickly dismissed the thought, shaking his head, not knowing why he thought of it in the first place, not really wanting to feel sorry for someone so … so damn  _ godlike _ . But then … Viktor couldn’t have been born here, born to this existence, could he?

Turning towards the wall, Yuuri heaved a sigh. There was no way he was going to walk all the way back to the ravens’ balcony - he didn’t even think he  _ could _ at this point. He would need Viktor’s help.

Their awkward last encounter echoed in his mind . . . 

Yuuri ended up standing there rooted in one spot long enough to make Shoma huff out an annoyed breath. Yuuri turned to see him pout and lie on the floor by his feet.

“Okay,” Yuuri said through a sigh. “Okay, I’ll do this just once more, and then I’ll ask Mila to get a watch for me, okay? Okay.” He pulled off his gloves and shoved them into his coat pockets, tucking his journal into a handy velcro slit in Shoma’s jacket. Shoma stood up and wagged his tail, tongue lolling and butt shaking.

“You’re way more excited about this than I am,” Yuuri told him rubbing at his soft white ears. “Don’t tell me you already like the guy?” He was still stalling. Yuuri shook out his hands and wriggled his fingers. Why was this so difficult?

Yuuri looked down at Shoma once more, and before he lost his nerve again, slammed his hands against the palace’s icy walls. The ice shivered underneath his skin; it was such a strange and alien feeling Yuuri was sure his face twisted up into something ghoulish. He hoped Viktor couldn’t see him through however this thing worked.

The ice stilled, and the squirming in Yuuri’s belly quieted. Yuuri blew out a sigh through his mouth and shook out his hands again. He hoped Viktor wouldn’t try to meet them; he hoped Viktor had learned Yuuri would be the only one in his castle begging for help.

On the short way back, around the corner that hadn’t been there before (and he promised himself he’d catch the walls shifting in action one of these times), Yuuri found himself whispering a chorus of “Please don’t show up, please don’t show up…”.

But Viktor didn’t, and the layers of ice opened up to the night sky drenched in blues, greens, violets, and magentas. Yuuri stood in the doorway, stilled in awe. Shoma danced around his ankles and ran to the black birds he somehow already considered friends. The world above them shifted and sparkled like a glowing painter’s canvas constantly being revised.

Yuuri had seen the Northern Lights before. Competitive figure skating demanded constant traveling -- he’d even seen the Northern Lights here in  _ Russia _ once a couple years ago. He was in Sochi for the 2014 Olympics; he didn’t qualify, of course, but his coach, Celestino, urged him to go for the experience, and his best friend, Phichit, swore he wouldn’t attend without him.

 

_ Phichit had dragged Yuuri to a dinner with some of their competitors, and then  _ they _ dragged the both of them to one of Sochi’s parks afterwards. Yuuri was already pretty tipsy then; there and then he was over the legal drinking age at twenty. Phichit was hardly better, even as a teen, stealing Yuuri’s drinks so he could parade around with all the swagger of a white American man with his first grasshopper.  _

_ The Northern Lights then wasn’t really what Yuuri remembered most from the experience, to be honest. He could faintly recall thinking it was pretty. But no, what he remembered most was Christophe unveiling out a bottle of something called  _ spirytus _ [[[1](%E2%80%9C#note1%E2%80%9D)]], and his confident voice challenging Yuuri to a drinking challenge. _

_ Tipsy Yuuri is, was, and always will be stupid, and tipsy Yuuri grabbed the bottle without even looking at the label (not that he would’ve been able to read Russian, for one thing), and wrenched back his head. _

_ Out of nowhere, before he could do more than taste what must have been liquid fire, a junior skater from the Russian team  _ grabbed _ the bottle out of his mouth and smashed it on the icy pavement. Yuuri was sure he’d lost a couple teeth, too. _

_ And then little Yuri Plisetsky, the snarling Russian fairy, stabbed a finger at his face and yelled, “Are you  _ trying _ to get yourself killed?” _

 

It was definitely … an experience. But nothing like this. That  _ sky _ had been nothing like this, nothing like the feeling of being so close Yuuri thought he could just reach out and take a couple bits of it down for himself.

Biting his lip, Yuuri extended a hand. He couldn’t help himself. Sparks of hot pink and chartreuse fell lazily into his palm before melting. Ah, it was snow. Of course …

Yuuri looked up and saw both ravens waiting for him on either side of the balcony, almost like statues except for the glitter in their eyes. He couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran its way down his back. The Northern Lights had  _ seemed _ so unearthly; Mila and Sara were a reminder that everything  _ was _ .

Shoma’s wagging tail drew Yuuri forward, and without him Yuuri didn’t know if he would fully step foot outside. The wind had calmed since the last time he was here, and the snow fell around him as if the Northern Lights were falling, too. 

Mila and Sara watched him, following his approach with the jerky shifts of their snow-capped heads. 

“Evening,” one of them said. 

Was it Sara? Yuuri had a hard time telling them apart …

Then, softly and teasing, “So formal, Sara,” and Yuuri let out a breath he didn’t know he held.

The heavy atmosphere shattered with Mila’s tone of voice, and the ravens no longer seemed like gargoyles. Yuuri forced himself to remember their kindness and complete lack of hostility. He shook his head to clear whatever monsters his anxiety had turned them into while he was inside.

But he still found himself fumbling when trying to address them. His hand fiddled with the zipper of his jacket. 

“So,” Yuuri began, “you told me to come back when I was tired, right?” 

Shoma hopped around Yuuri’s legs and saved him from having to meet either of their eyes as they landed on the balcony’s icy floor. The dangerous curve of a black talon appeared in the periphery of Yuuri’s vision, and he shrank -- then doubly so when the bird it belonged to began to talk.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mila said. Or the voice and inflection Yuuri had begun to associate with her, anyway. “I promise we’re not so bad. I always thought Viktor was the scariest of us four, even with our beaks and feathers.”

That got a huff of a laugh out of Yuuri. He looked up at last, and Mila’s head cocked, her feathers glistening with an amber sheen against the glimmering sky. She ruffled her feathers, scattering the snow clinging to her, and a flurry of rainbow lights fell all around Yuuri and Shoma. It was an exquisite feeling, like being inside a rainbow. Shoma tried to catch the snowflakes in his mouth, and Yuuri couldn’t help smiling when the brightest of blues alit on his nose.

Yuuri looked back at Mila. Without knowing why, he reached out and laid a hand on her neck. Mila jumped, and it was enough to break Yuuri out of whatever spell he was in. He jerked backwards, stooping down to clutch Shoma to his chest.

Mila trilled, shaking her head. “No, I’m sorry. You’re fine, I was just … startled.”

She stretched her neck back out to him, almost begging him to touch her feathers again without having to voice it. 

Yuuri hesitated, enough for Mila to hop awkwardly around on her feet with her neck outstretched, and then brushed his free hand along her feathers. He didn’t know what he expected, really. Something extraordinary? But they were just feathers. Except of course that they belonged to a bird large enough to carry away a pony.

Mila leaned into his touch, inhaling and closing her eyes, enjoying his petting like a dog or cat would. Yuuri smiled and scratched under her chin. Sara edged closer to them, gaze askance, as if embarrassed. 

Yuuri waved her over, sitting down and finally getting comfortable. He scratched the two birds with Shoma settling down in his lap and the sky falling down like confetti.

He didn’t realize he started nodding off until one of the ravens nudged his chin. Yuuri blinked - and had a hard time doing more than that with the brightness of the Northern Lights.

“No, no, don’t sleep yet,” one of them said, and Yuuri was too tired to try to figure out who was who. “We need to get you warm first.”

“I  _ am _ warm,” Yuuri answered. And then his nose betrayed him by running and making him sniff loudly. He grumbled and tried harder to keep his eyes open.

Mila and Sara were where he remembered them, both looking comfortable and drowsy under the ever drifting, colorful sky. But they had some of Mila’s stash piled in front of them (where do they even keep it?): the slug-like sleeping bag, another water bottle, the warmest pair of sleepwear Yuuri had ever seen, and a large mound of hand warmers.

Yuuri curled his fingers into fists to prevent himself from making a face. He recognized the sleeping bag as one of those extreme-weather models so he’d be okay, but all he had was a sleeping bag against what, the open sky? The snow? He dreaded closing himself up in that thing and laying on the ice for days, let alone weeks or months. Yuuri steeled himself with a deep breath and edged closer.

Mila and Sara eyed him as though he’d turn and run. It made Yuuri  _ want _ to.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

They shared an uneasy glance.

“We’re going to …  _ modify _ ourselves to help you,” Sara said. Her voice sounded less shrill and bird-like, but so human that Yuuri had to avert his eyes for a moment. It was as if his brain couldn’t handle it. 

Mila’s throat bobbed in what looked like laughter. “On the plus side, you’ll get your very own feather bed out here!”

Yuuri gaped at her. “You’re going to turn into … a bed?”

“No, no,” she said, laughing. “A shelter, more or less. My fault for exaggerating. Remember when Sara helped you avoid frostbite? It’ll be a little like that.”

Yuuri didn’t actually know  _ what _ happened then; he was so out of it at the time he could only process his skin thawing. Sara had changed her actual body’s  _ shape? _

“There’s just one catch,” Sara said, and Yuuri found himself slumping with relief, that there was  _ some _ way he could start to repay them. “When we tell you not to open your eyes, you must obey without question. Do you understand?”

Can’t open his eyes? Yuuri put a hand to his temple as if it would help him with this absurd situation. “Why?” he managed to ask.

Mila and Sara looked at one another again, as if passing silent words. Yuuri supposed they very well could be. Centuries with only each other for a companion could allow them that talent.

“It’s a request,” Sara answered at last, firmer. “Can you do that for us?”

Yuuri could hardly refuse. They’ve given him so much; they’ve saved his life over and over and over again. And for what? A simple request? 

… Unless.

Yuuri raised his head. “I can do that. I mean, I can try - I’ll tie something around my eyes if I have to, but … you can’t … I  _ know _ you’re not doing this just for me. For my sake, that is. Is it for Viktor’s? Or will helping him help you somehow, too? And what do you all need help with? Or from? Is it  _ from _ something? God, I just, I need to know what I’m doing, I need to know what’s going on.”

Mila’s trembling black beak opened and closed without a sound. She glanced at Sara, Yuuri, back at Sara, and then bolted. Yuuri threw an arm over his eyes from the sudden wind, and his ears popped from the roar of Mila’s wings beating with such a fury.

Shoma leapt to his feet, barking in that tone that split Yuuri’s ears -- and Sara’s too, probably, because she brushed over his back with one wing tip. Just like that, Shoma quieted and calmed. Convenient, but terrifying. What about that one gesture made Shoma --

“Yuuri,” Sara said.

Yuuri jumped -- and realized his still held his arm over most of his face. He lowered it to his stomach and wrapped it around himself instead.

“Even after so much time, it still hurts,” Sara said, offering an explanation.

Licking his lips, Yuuri chanced it. “What does?”

Sara met his gaze so fast Yuuri scrambled back on his butt, nearly back inside the palace again. The entrance held him in shadow. He felt somehow more protected there, silly as it sounded.

“Viktor, Makkachin, Mila, and I. do you think any of us want to be here?”

“Well, I guess, I mean …. I suppose not.” Yuuri paused. “But this  _ is _ Viktor’s world, isn’t it?”

Sara shook her head, although she could’ve been shaking the snow off. Her eyes were violet when they met Yuuri’s again. “Viktor didn’t choose this place. This hell of snow and ice chose  _ him _ .”

And with that, leaving Yuuri’s mouth agape, Sara mentioned something about checking on Mila and left.

Yuuri slowly sat up. It had never occurred to him that the Snow King himself didn’t even  _ like _ the snow he was named after.

Shoma distracted him, making a nest out of his sleeping bag. He kneaded it and turned it around under his paws about a hundred times before curling up in the opening where Yuuri was supposed to slide in. Yuuri shook his head, chuckling, before walking over and taking his journal out of Shoma’s jacket pouch. He eyed the warm pajamas set out for him, but the thought of undressing in the freezing cold was too much. He’d just sleep in what he had on. But he wouldn’t disturb Shoma just yet. Not when he looked so peaceful, his little nose curled under one paw and his breath spinning above him languidly.

Pulling the collar of his jacket over his chin, Yuuri leaned on the balcony rail. He drank in the sight of the Northern Lights -- probably the only splash of color he’d see while here. The first time he looked out over Viktor’s land (or whatever it was), he had felt swallowed by all its whiteness. It made him feel small and insignificant. But this? This sky wrapped him up in its colorful embrace and made him feel  _ part  _ of something.

And then Shoma snored so loud Yuuri turned around to find his dog woke himself up.

Yuuri laughed. “Silly boy.”

Shoma snuggled back into Yuuri’s sleeping bag and makeshift pillow with a contented snort. Yuuri watched him for a minute before turning back to the sky.

“I wonder …,” he thought out loud, “Maybe if Viktor spent some time out of his castle … seeing this … he wouldn’t be as sad or lonely or whatever …”

A sudden movement drew his eyes downward, and Yuuri leaned farther over the rail. He choked on his breath and covered his mouth, horrified.

A tiny, false balcony jutted out from a lower floor, its doors open and its space occupied by none other than Makkachin and the Snow King himself. Viktor’s eyes were locked on Yuuri’s. They seemed to glow in the dimness of night, frigid and sharp.

Yuuri’s fingers dug into his jaw. “Oh my  _ god _ ,” he gasped, throwing himself away from the edge. He dove into his sleeping bag, mumbling an apology to Shoma, and tightened the drawstring to seal himself inside. For good measure, he rolled over to press his face down into his pillow.

He had basically called Viktor, the Snow King, someone who crossed actual souls of the dead over to the afterlife, lonely and pathetic and -- 

Yuuri pressed his face farther into his sweater.  _ Oh my god _ repeated over and over in his mind with little room for anything else except a prayer that Viktor wouldn’t come up to see him.

And yet … a  _ stupid _ , tiny, and rebellious wish that he would.

  
  


#

  
  


Yuuri woke the next day with his face still deep in the folds of his sweater. His skin would have the most embarrassing crease lines once he lifted his head away from his makeshift pillow, and he groaned at the thought.

No sooner had he made a sound than Sara brushed the back of his head and said, “Keep your eyes closed until we say so.”

Yuuri’s heart immediately hammered against his ribcage, but he obeyed. Mila and Sara were the only ones here who could keep him alive; he needed to be on their good sides as long as he possibly could.

“Okay, you’re fine to open them.”

Yuuri rolled over in his slug bag and undid its zipper, crawling out of it like a newly born butterfly. And then the cold hit him without warning, making him gasp and crawl halfway back in.

Mila and Sara perched on the rails again like gargoyles, black eyes watching him and Shoma. A heavy silence permeated the air as Yuuri searched for his glasses in his sleeping bag.

_ Stupid _ , he thought. Didn’t even set them aside someplace safe before he crashed. Getting replacements here with his exact prescription would be such a pain if not impossible. Thankfully, he found them in his wrinkled sweater, smudged and dirty but somehow in one piece. Then Yuuri pushed them onto his nose and found one lens halfway up his brow and the pressing into his cheek. Yuuri cursed and tried to bend the frames back into shape.

The ravens hadn’t moved when Yuuri could see them clearer. Didn’t move at all, except for the wind tugging at their feathers. Were they waiting for something. What? 

He was sick of this, the not knowing. The fumbling in the dark till he messed up again and again and  _ again _ . Like last night, when he finally thought he had gotten somewhere:  _ Do you even  _ need _ helping?  _ And it had been the wrong thing to say. Always the wrong thing.

With as much dignity as he could, Yuuri grabbed the sweatshirt set out for him (and he’d have to have a talk with Mila about independence, and how he could possibly have an actual role in choosing his own damn clothes). Yuuri stuck a bare arm outside to retrieve some deodorant and added that to his newly-made checklist. This deodorant made him smell like a straight teenager -- or maybe this was Mila and Sara’s way of telling him he stank. He probably did. Though he dreaded when he gave in and asked how he’d bathe out here.

As clean as he could get for now, Yuuri emerged a second time ready and more prepared for the cold. Mila and Sara were still on their perches, and Yuuri wondered if that was how they endured this centuries-long winter. They just checked out on those railings.

Yuuri sighed, crossed his legs, and faced them. “My name is Katsuki Yuuri. And this is my dog, Shoma,” Both birds tilted their head at the ball of fur wriggling in the snow. “I think …” Yuuri sucked in a large breath to steady himself. “I want to try to help you, but i need to know everything. What can i do?”

The silence that followed his declaration wilted Yuuri’s confidence. His shoulders curled in, and he ducked his head under their gazes. He’d messed up again, hadn’t he? One after another.

Then Mila looked over at Sara and said, “I guess that means I win.”

Yuuri’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

Sara ruffled her neck feathers, something Yuuri was beginning to notice was a habitual gesture with her. “I actually don’t think it was so great to bet over a someone’s mental state.”

“You’re just mad I won,” Mila shot back, around the same time Yuuri muttered,

“I’m not awake enough for this …”

The two of them kept bickering while Yuuri looked through the pile next to his sleeping bag for anything edible. He needed something substantial in his belly and about six cups of coffee --

_ Shit _ . Was it possible to even get coffee out here? Yuuri’s heartbeat stupidly spiked at the thought. Panicking over coffee, that was a new low. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he looked back up at the ravens.

“Mila, do you have coffee?”

Mila’s head swiveled his way, then bobbed in what was probably confusion. Yuuri did not look forward to the idea of having to explain the concept of coffee and caffeine addiction to an age-old bird before she let out a high-pitched chirp.

“Right, breakfast!” She hopped right over to Yuuri, way too cheerful in a way that reminded him of Phichit and made his stomach give a painful twist. “Be patient with us, we haven’t eaten for a long time. You’ll have to tell us when you need something, but don’t be shy about it, okay?”

When she was near enough for her feathers to tickle Yuuri’s brow, she whispered in that low, eerie human-like voice, You were right: we’re cursed too.”

Yuuri jerked his head back.  _ Cursed? _

Mila said nothing more, just opened her wings to present him with a box of breakfast bars, a sealed bag of kibble, and a bottle of frappuccino. Yuuri tried not to make a face. He supposed any coffee was better than none. He should be grateful he was getting food at all, but he’d probably be more grateful after he had something to weigh down his stomach. Pre-breakfast Yuuri wasn’t a friend to anyone.

Shoma dug into his kibble as if he had been starved, and Yuuri downed his coffee in pretty much one go. They were meant for each other, he guessed.

Wondering idly how he’d deal with the trash, Yuuri watched Mila sweet up the clothes he wore yesterday. She had said “Cursed  _ too” _ . Could Viktor be under some kind of fairy-tale curse? Who could  _ possibly _ curse someone who had the power to deal with the souls of the dead?

Yuuri munched on his hard granola bar and decided he didn’t want to think about it. Instead, he pulled out his journal and flipped to the first page. His pathetic map stared back at him. Even if he got a watch, it wasn’t like he could make any real progress without asking Viktor for help, not if he needed to return to this balcony every time he slept.

He made a frustrated groan through his last bite. Sara and Mila’s heads jerked up to look at him.

“Everything okay?” Mila asked, half laughing at him.

Yuuri’s “mm-hmm” sounded less positive than he meant it to be. Sighing, he took up another bar and opened it half with his teeth and half with his one good hand. 

He depended on everyone in this place for  _ everything _ . Better to accept it now than make it harder for himself down the road. The granola began to taste chalky in his mouth. Yuuri set it his lap and took a deep breath. 

Even back home, he’d always needed help. Help with his coaching fees, help with his college tuition, help with his jumps, help with his anxiety, with his confidence … the list was endless. He was all in all pretty much a useless idiot of a human being. What did Makkachin possibly see in him? Why hadn’t she left him there in his wrecked car?

He was just whining now. Then again, it was his what, second day on the job? Breakfast could be his official time to whine, at least to himself. Yuuri thought he’d scream and combust otherwise.

He came back to the present to find both ravens still staring at him, Mila way closer than she had been before he checked out. Yuuri bit back a yelp and tried a smile, though he was sure it looked more like a grimace.

“I’m going to explore the halls again today,” he said, trying and failing to sound casual. “Do you think … Mila, you have a backpack somewhere, right?” 

Mila nodded, and Yurri wondered if he would ever get used to their almost human like gestures. 

“Thank you,” Yuuri said. He put the rest of the breakfast bars into the backpack’s neon orange front pouch, and slid the journal in one of the back ones before sheepishly meeting Mila’s eyes again. “And … I’m sorry, I just … I don’t want you to think  _ I _ think of you as some sort of …  _ storage thing _ … I just --” 

A sharp pain in his leg interrupted him. His eyes shot open wide.

“You  _ bit _ me!”

Mila’s wing’s ruffled, and if she were human Yuuri could perfectly picture her hand waving in dismissal. “Oh, please. It was barely a nip. It didn’t even break the skin!”

Yuuri looked down. “I’m … wearing like three layers, how would you know?” He was definitely feeling the lack of caffeine.

But to his surprise, Mila and Sara just laughed.

Sara hopped closer. “Trust us, nothing you’ll ask for will ever be too much. No request will bother us. We’ve been waiting for  _ anything _ , for  _ anyone _ , for way too long.”

Yuuri knew they meant well, he did, but it felt like his first place lead in the short program of last year’s Grand Prix Final all over again. 

 

#

 

Back in the icy depths of the Snow King’s castle, Yuuri was armed with a backpack full of water bottles, food, kibble, a first aid kit, and his journal. And this time, Shoma walked in front of him on a leash. All this made Yuuri feel ten times more competent, and more importantly, ten times more confident walking through these icy halls.

All this was some sort of puzzle, he decided. He could hear Phichit’s avid voice in his ear, going on about how the castle was a real-life puzzle dungeon level: the balcony his save point, and Mila that shopkeeper/companion that conveniently gave him anything he needed.

Unsurprisingly, thinking of this nightmare as some sort of video game helped. He only wished Phichit was at the controls. Phichit usually won -- and this might be the only time Yuuri would admit it.

Facing one of the walls, Yuuri drew in a breath through his teeth and leaned his forehead against it. He didn’t know if all calls went to Viktor, but he addressed his thoughts to Makkachin, anyway. He wasn’t ready to face Viktor yet.

When he straightened and looked around, the hallway didn’t seem all that different. There were no new branches or difference in light or temperature. Maybe if he didn’t call for Viktor, it didn’t work? 

But then a gentle scraping echoed around him and Shoma, growing louder and louder until a great big ball of brown fur materialized from the haze of whiteness and pounced on Yuuri. Yuuri fell back against the wall for support, not minding that a connection was made. If anything, he was linking back with Makkachin, who was licking his chin and face and anywhere she could reach. Shoma stood on his hind legs, trying to budge his way in between Makkachin and Yuuri, a jealous little whine building in the back of his throat.

“Down, Makka, Down,” Yuuri said between laughing.

When she sat back, Yuuri wanted to deliver the little speech he had rehearsed that morning, but the words got stuck in his throat. Makkachin just … she looked like any other pet dog. Speaking to her as if she were human when she danced on her paws and swished her tail back and forth like an eager puppy felt ridiculous.

Yuuri licked his half-numb lips and tried again. “Makkachin, do I need to return to the medical room to change and sanitize my bandages? What’s the procedure I need to follow to take care of my injuries? And, uh,” Yuuri paused, embarrassed, “is there any way I could get mild medication for the pain?”

His one free hand worried the hem of his sweater. Yuuri had ibuprofen from Mila, but it wasn’t enough for a restful sleep. He spent most of the night tossing in his sleeping bag and trying not to annoy Shoma. 

Makkachin looked up at him and tilted her head in that doggy way that made Yuuri want to cover his face. She was so  _ cute _ , and he felt  _ so _ silly.

And then Yuuri’s next breath was sucked out of his mouth. Yuuri clutched at his throat, eyes opening wide, and watched the trail of steam vanish from his lips like the very first time he met Viktor.

The curl of steam exploded until all Yuuri could see was a milky white spinning gust. It sped around him like a whirlwind, ripping his clothes, his skin, at his hair. He tried to reach his face to cover his eyes, but his arm couldn’t fight against it. His mouth opened in a silent cry --

\-- And it was over. It was all maybe five seconds, and the torrent had passed. Yuuri looked down at Makkachin, who seemed way too pleased with herself, nearly smiling and dancing on the ice.

Yuuri realized his fingers tightly curled over something. He stiffly opened them to find a small bottle of a common muscle relaxer he recognized from times he had overworked himself skating. There was even his name on the label with dosing instructions -- it had everything but a prescriber. He gave a small, incredulous chuckle and checked himself over.

The arm that had been held in a permanent wave was now slung close to his chest in a polyester brace. His shoulders felt wrenched behind him as they and his back were wrapped in an additional x-shaped support made of breathable nylon. Yuuri reached up to feel his collarbones and flinched when his fingers brushed over a large bandage leaking the vaseline they used to keep wounds and stitches moist.

He looked down at Makkachin and wondered if she got time periods confused. He remembered watching an American film set in the 1920’s featuring a protagonist with a hard clavicle cast like the one Makka gave him before. His updated brace seemed more like what hospitals gave patients now in the present day. Yuuri supposed it was easy to get something as minute as decades mixed up when you were over centuries old … He just hoped it wouldn’t be a problem for him in some way.

Yuuri slipped the muscle relaxers in a zipped pocket of his backpack and gave Makkachin a polite bow. “Thank you,” he said. “Would it be okay if I asked for another favor?”

Makkachin stepped forward and licked his hand, making Yuuri laugh and crouch down to pet her. Shoma nosed his way through to demand attention, and Yuuri obligingly scratched the place behind his ears he knew Shoma liked best.

“Thank you, Makka,” Yuuri said again. “When you’re not … not  _ busy _ , would you be able to help me and Shoma around? There has to be more to this place than these empty halls.”

Makkachin leapt away from him, barking and hopping. Shoma found her energy contagious, pulling on his leash - and then biting and tugging on it as if it were a toy.

Yuuri rose to his feet and let them pull him along. A moment of stumbling jogging and the walls began to shift -- the endlessly colorless walls,  _ began to change. _ The ice became less chalky and opaque and grew clearer. The space between the walls widened as natural light poured in and filled everything with a peach-gold blush.

And then: snow.

More damn snow.

But he paused when his boots scraped against snow-covered dirt instead of the gritty ice he was used to. They had entered some kind of indoor-outdoor space like some fancy city-like hotels or malls built at their centers. Craning his neck upward he could see the floors of the castle until they blended together. Yuuri spun around, catching small, uneven mounds of snow and scraggly trees either dead or caught in this eternal winter. This little garden wasn’t pretty, but it was different, and it made affection rise up inside him.

Above the quiet sounds of Shoma, Makkachin, and Yuuri padding through the snow, the solid  _ crack _ of a skate perfectly landing a jump cracked through the air deafeningly loud. Yuuri flinched, and the noise sent shivers up and down his spine.

_ Skating. _ Someone here was  _ skating _ .

His face flushing, Yuuri shot forward and tramped through the snow piles. His boots hooked around Shoma’s lead, nearly face-planting himself into one of them, and crushing Shoma between his knee. Yuuri grabbed a fistful of Makkachin’s fur and half hopped, half ran with her as he freed Shoma. He ignored the snow seeping in over his boots and the pain in his bad leg, because the shivers coursing through his body became like hot lightning. Like … excitement. Like joy.

Yuuri stopped. Abruptly enough for Shoma to ram into him and nearly lurch Yuuri forward onto his knees. 

The rink spread outward before him, but its surface was like a mirror. A mirror broken into a thousand pieces, some as large as a car, some too small to make out, glittering under the overcast sky. And gliding over these broken cracks with an inhuman grace, unaffected by the uneven surface, in perfect form and nailing jumps Yuuri still couldn’t land, was the Snow King.

Yuuri scooped Shoma up and dove behind one of the snowy ridges. Makkachin followed in lazy, merry hops, seemingly intent on bringing Yuuri to an early grave. Hand over his heart, Yuuri felt his pulse rocketing under his fingertips. Every crack and skid of blade on ice had it stuttering.

_ Skating. _ Viktor was figure skating.

Ever since the night of the accident -- was it really only a couple days ago? -- Yuuri had been submerged into this icy horror story in which nothing at all was familiar. But this,  _ this _ Yuuri recognized. This, Yuuri could relate to. Skating was his constant comfort since he was a child, and he had spent his entire living life studying and trying to perfect it. 

Yuuri peeked over his tiny snowbank.

Gone were Viktor’s long, flowing robes, the ice blue suit jacket and white embroidery, the heavy fur trim. Instead he wore what Yuuri considered a fantastical storybook version of his typical training clothes: a slim-fitted, long-sleeved white shirt and black pants, both seemingly inset with enough sequins or sparkles to rival the snow. 

Yuuri chuckled at that. Viktor was as flashy as some of the more dramatic skaters he knew from back home. Then he caught himself and remembered Viktor was a literal demigod. He couldn’t be like the anyone Yuuri knew back home.

Yuuri looked back at Viktor. Viktor had pulled his long, silvery hair into a bun behind his head, though much of it had escaped and whirled about his face like a tiny flurry. Everything about him exuded cold, unearthly beauty. 

Cold, so very cold. That unemotional, empty expression Yuuri already associated with him was nowhere near Viktor today. Viktor’s face crumpled beautifully with what seemed like yearning. But though beautiful, it all looked too detached, too rehearsed. Too … beautiful. He spun and jumped and performed in perfect form like a smile that never reached the eyes.

Yuuri had no idea he had stood until Viktor stopped completely, icy gaze needling his.

Neither one of them moved at first, caught in each other’s eyes, Viktor breathing heavily in such a human-like way that Yuuri couldn’t look away.

Then Shoma wiggled out of Yuuri’s arms and dropped to the snow, nearly burying himself to his chin. He scurried over to the rink, yanking Yuuri forward and half dragging him to Viktor. Makkachin dashed past them both.

Shoma stopped at the edge of the ice, where he tried to jump up on Viktor’s training pants, tongue out and ready to lick Viktor’s hands. Yuuri caught the tiny look of panic cross Viktor’s face before he slid backwards out of the little dog’s reach. When he looked back up at Yuuri, his icy mask was back.

“What are you doing here?” Viktor asked.

Yuuri blanched at his tone. He fell back on Makkachin, the easiest and cutest scapegoat, and said, “Makkachin led me here.” But he ruined that by being unable to stop his damn mouth, “But if I’m intruding on something, I mean if you don’t want me here, it’s okay, I can just …” Yuuri made himself stop talking, biting on both his lips.

Viktor’s eyes narrowed, more calculating than critical, and that was the only change in his expression. “She’s grown to trust you very quickly.”

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry.” Yuuri fidgeted, gaze flickering from Makka to Viktor. What did Makkachin want him to do? Desperate, he gestured to the rink. “What were you skating just then? 

That crease Yuuri already had begun to look for appeared between Viktor’s brows, and the Snow King looked down at his feet, as if he forgot what he had been doing. He seemed to struggle with something … debating on whether he could share something with Yuuri.

“I’m a figure skater, too,” Yuuri tried again. “It’s --  _ was _ \-- it  _ was _ my entire life.” He looked down at the surface of the ice, reflecting the sky exactly like a mirror, alike and unlike every rink he’d ever skated on. The sight of it softened his face; he could feel the shift in him like a switch when he blinked.

“I skated every day,” Yuuri continued. He didn’t know why he kept talking, didn’t know why he was opening up. “It was the only place where I could clear my head sometimes.”

He looked up to find such a difference in Viktor’s eyes that he almost backed away. The curious, meditative look was gone, replaced by something so piercing and direct it froze Yuuri in his place. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came to him.

Viktor extended Yuuri one long, pale hand.

Yuuri’s eyes widened. Viktor, who wouldn’t touch a puppy, offering him this? Yuuri’s bulky, gloved hand shook as he reached out. At the last moment, Viktor pulled away, and Yuuri would consider it teasing if not for Viktor’s face, still serious and almost pleading. Dimly, Yuuri recognized it would look ridiculous, him following Viktor with his arms out as if he were begging.

And then Yuuri looked down and yelped when he realized his next step would land on the rink. “W-wait, I don’t have any --”

His voice gave way to surprised laughter when his feet slid onto the rink with the smooth glide of a boot and skate. Yuuri almost bent over backwards to examine his boots, now fashioned with a basic pale, snow-white blade. Wide-eyed, he hopped back on the snow, almost taking Viktor back with him thought their hands never touched. He pulled Viktor with him as he stepped back and forth, watching the pure-white streak appear out of nothing beneath his foot.

Makkachin and Shoma danced around them, Shoma splitting Yuuri’s ears with his excited, high-pitched yapping. It was probably the most fun he’d had since getting confined to this freezing wasteland.

Yuuri skipped once more on to the snowy bank - just for Shoma’s reaction -- when Viktor clicked his tongue and said his name.

Yuuri froze. His name sounded different in Viktor’s mouth. He didn’t even know the Snow King knew that much about him; he didn’t think Viktor saying his name would affect him like this.

He glanced back at Shoma, but the puppy sat down at the edge of the ice, obedient like he’d rarely ever been before. He gave Shoma a small smile and turned back to Viktor, whose eyes hadn’t left Yuuri’s face and hadn’t lost their intensity.

“Viktor?” Yuuri said. 

Viktor stopped in the middle of the rink and stared at Yuuri expectantly. No smile, but his eyebrows vanished up into his bangs and his eyes were wide enough to see the whites around his irises.

“Uhh, right,” Yuuri said, tugging the cuffs of his coat over his gloves.

Nodding more to himself than to Viktor, Yuuri skated a couple laps around the broken ice to warm himself up. He glided over the cracks like they didn’t exist. When he looked down, it made him dizzy and nauseous, so he just lifted his chin and decided, for now, to do his best to ignore it. His body burned and protested, but he did his very best to ignore that, too. Just one routine, and then he could rest.

After his muscles felt looser and his body warm, Yuuri shed his bulky coat and slid into the opening position for the routine he would be presenting at Japanese Nationals this year. The thought of him missing it created such a painful crater inside him that for a moment, his chest felt too tight, and he fell out of position, folding in on himself a little.

He took a couple of deep breaths, the first one shaky, the last one steady and sure. “I won’t be very good right now. I probably shouldn’t be skating at all.” 

Viktor cocked his head, much like something Shoma would do when Yuuri blabbed on about something and expected him to understand.

Yuuri fell out of position and gestured widely to himself. “I’m … the car crash?” Did Makkachin and Viktor have a way to communicate, or did Viktor really have no idea what Yuuri was going on? 

… He guessed that made them both have something else in common.

“Makkachin saved me from a car crash,” Yuuri continued. “My arm or collarbone is broken up here, and my leg is sprained or something … Yeah, I probably shouldn’t be skating.”

Focusing on everything that was trying to heal, his body screamed. Imagining how every pull and sprain would ache after he was done trying to pitifully replicate one of his competition programs just made him want to curl up somewhere and take a nap. Everything in him screamed about how stupid an idea this was, but Yuuri laughed a little at himself, straightened his back, and for the third time, took his starting position.

 

#

 

In hindsight, it _really_ _was_ a stupid idea.

Yuuri sat on the edge of the rink, head bowed between his knees. His chest roared as if on fire, but worst of all was the pain of actually attempting a double with two casts on. Even in the pseudo-afterlife he was a stupid mix of anxiety and competitiveness once he went on the ice.

Viktor loomed over him, the shining ends of his ponytail nearly grazing the top of Yuuri’s head. He said nothing, just watched him hack half a lung onto the ice in front of his feet. Very reassuring. The instinctive urge just to run somewhere and curl up reared up stronger than ever. What must Viktor think of him now?

Unable to stand the silence any longer, Yuuri said, “I’m sorry. I’m really not this bad usually, it’s just--”

“You’re very emotional.”

Yuuri coughed on his surprise and cracked his neck in a bad way jerking his head up. “I’m -- wait, I’m -- excuse me?”

Viktor’s eyes were bright, his face wide open in a way that caught Yuuri completely off-guard. “When you skate,” Viktor continued. “It’s like you’re overflowing with it.”

Yuuri sat there, blinking up at him, and then his mouth went and followed his body’s lead to say the stupidest thing: “You’re -- are you smiling?”

He expected the fall of Viktor’s expression and winced. He tried to rise, waving his arm as if to ward Viktor’s mask away, and failed at both completely. The pain ripping through Yuuri’s leg and hip made him crash back down to the ice, hissing.

“I’m so sorry, Viktor,” Yuuri blabbered, falling over every word. “I’m--”

But Viktor didn’t look upset, or entirely buried under his frozen mask. Instead he raised one arm, hesitant and shakily, up to his lips. He pulled his hand away, staring at his fingers as if they held some sort of secret.

Yuuri gave an awkward laugh. “It, uh, it doesn’t come off on your fingers.”

Viktor looked down at Yuuri with none of his usual grace, his mouth half parted and eyes wide open.

“Are you … okay?” Yuuri asked.

Viktor flinched. And then without another word, a long, white robe materialized from his shoulders and fell to beyond his heels, following him as he turned and fled the rink.

Yuuri craned his neck to look after him, but the snowy hills blocked his view. He guessed that was another thing he and Viktor had in common: a bad habit of running away. 

When he turned back around, Makkachin walked over and sat in Viktor’s place with a sad little whine. Yuuri reached out and scratched her under the chin.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Makkachin climbed into his lap, setting her large head on his knee. Yuuri knew she was trying to tell him something, but he didn’t know how to interpret what it was. He settled for hugging her to him, and then adding Shoma when he nuzzled his way in.

Yuuri planned on sitting there with his ass numb for a couple more minutes to recover before starting the walk back to Mila and Sara, but the sun, as weak as it was, caught on the mirror-like ice, and Yuuri looked down between Makkachin’s white paws.

He saw his own reflection. Wan and dirty, with heavy bags under his eyes and fresh pimples dotting his jawline. Yuuri pinched his cheek. Though it was impossible -- it  _ had _ to be impossible in just a few days -- it looked as if he’d gotten heavier. 

Yuuri didn’t want to look at himself anymore, but he couldn’t look away.  _ This _ was how he appeared to Viktor, a smooth-skinned, perfect  _ demigod? _ He could feel his body trembling and heat rushing to those spots behind his eyes.

Makkachin barked in his ear.

Yuuri cried out, covering it and tearing his eyes away from the icy mirror. He had the queasy sensation of being on a landing plane, that pop in the ears and the roll of the stomach. When everything settled, he no longer felt near to an anxiety attack. His body stilled and his heart slowed. It vanished, and everything was steady again.

“Makkachin,” he said, “what was that?”

Makkachin bit a good chunk of his scarf and dragged him to his feet. Yuuri wrapped Shoma’s leash around his wrist and patted Makkachin’s head.

“Okay, are you gonna show me something?”

Makkachin trotted around the edge of the rink, her paws finding a trail that looked well-worn under a thin sheet of snow. Now that his body cooled after his disastrous skate, Yuuri shivered. The cold bit the tip of his nose like a vice. He remembered Viktor exuding a frozen chill, but now without him here he felt far colder.

When they reached the far side of the rink, Makkachin stopped and began digging through the snow. Yuuri knelt, wincing, and tried to help her. Slowly, a plaque appeared under them, its dark stone a severe contrast to the white surroundings and what snow stuck in the etching.

Yuuri swiped his glove over the stone a last time and then sat back. Rune-like symbols decorated the smooth plaque in a language Yuuri didn’t even recognize and couldn’t even guess which part of the globe they came from. He looked at Makkachin and shrugged.

“I can’t read it.”

Even so, Yuuri slung his backpack off his shoulder and took out his journal. He tore out a couple of its pages and laid them across the stone before scratching his pencil over them. A rubbing of the stone was better than nothing. If Makkachin thought it was important, he would consider it important too. She’d never done anything to make him doubt her so far.

Well, maybe except for choosing him for this whole thing.

_ But you made him smile. _

Yuuri covered his own mouth and stifled a gasp, then angrily swatted the thought away. Stupid, it was so stupid. Even as his cheeks warmed rebelliously. 

Sliding the stone rubbings into his journal, Yuuri took one of his pain meds and asked to go back to the ravens’ balcony. It wasn’t dark, and a quick check of his watch showed it to be only around five-thirty, but Yuuri didn’t think he could do much more without collapsing. He didn’t want to think about what just happened if he could help it. He’d  _ rather _ collapse in one of the halls somewhere.

When Yuuri got back to the balcony, he gave Makkachin one of Shoma’s treats in thanks -- it turned out she, and probably Viktor too,  _ could _ eat -- and wriggled into his slug-like sleeping bag. Shoma curled up by his head, making Yuuri blearily remember to unhook Shoma’s lead.

“Taking a rest, then?” Sara asked, but her voice already seemed far away.

“Mmph,” was all Yuuri could say.

He felt Mila and Sara curl their wings over him, shrouding him in a comfortable warmth, even if it sent his frozen nose stinging. As an afterthought, Yuuri reached out blindly and unzipped his backpack so he could hug his journal in his sleep. The journal was a solid comfort by his chest, and Yuuri thought this might have been the first time he had been truly comfortable since he arrived at the castle.

He curled his fingers around the leather spine, his mind wandering to Viktor’s smile, then the way Viktor’s fingers touched his lips, the way he looked when he’d been so shocked.

Yuuri slid into sleep, and he dreamed he was dancing with a man all in white, a solid ivory mask covering his face from crown to chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Spirytus Rektyfikowany, a spirit from Poland, 95 percent alcohol. Strongly advised (unless you’re Slavic) to not drink it straight.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]
> 
>  
> 
> thank you for sticking with me so far and reading!
> 
> [my yoi tumblr](http://leoscoachsbutch.tumblr.com/) ; [my art tumblr](http://nannahdraws.tumblr.com/) :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :')))
> 
> my [(art) tumblr](http://nannahdraws.tumblr.com/)


End file.
